


The Severance of Partnerships

by alliedwolves



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Vampire, Blood Drinking, Dehumanization, Jonah Magnus Week, M/M, Master and slave language, Multi, Power Imbalance, Thralldom, Trans Barnabas Bennett, basically: Mordechai sees humans as cattle and Barnabas is cattle Jonah Magnus might be tempted by, complex relationship to consent, depersonalisation, hurt fleeting comfort, the & are complex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-15
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:42:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24733321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alliedwolves/pseuds/alliedwolves
Summary: Mordechai is pretty sure he has something Jonah Magnus *wants*, at long last, and he intends to make as much use out of that fact as he can. He brings Barnabas to a party, and sits back to watch.
Relationships: Barnabas Bennett & Mordechai Lukas, Barnabas Bennett/Jonah Magnus, Mordechai Lukas & Jonah Magnus
Comments: 9
Kudos: 25
Collections: Jonah Magnus Week 2020, The_Magnusquerade





	1. Memorandum

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordechai has a plan, and is smugly sending a letter to set it into motion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Image description: 
> 
> Jonah,  
> I write to invite you to a small gathering. I furthermore request you bring neither guest nor "gift" toward our suppertime.
> 
> B. Bennett will serve to your needs in both capacities. (The Bs are stylised to be empty, the "both" badly blotted.)
> 
> You are to make him no undiscussed promise. Should such promises be something you desire, dear Jonah, that would require rather more negotiation between yourself and mine. (Both desire, and mine, are heavily underlined)
> 
> D (crossed out.)  
> Regards,  
> M.Lukas (also underlined, very heavily pushed into the paper, badly blotted.)

Mordechai Lukas did not consider himself a sadistic man. Cruel, perhaps, he might consider. One could be cruel to one’s dog, or hawk, or horse. But to be truly _sadistic_ one needed to be on the level of that which one tormented. And to be a sadistic _man_ one would first have to be a mere human, such as the unfortunate Barnabas Bennett, thrall and complication.

Through the former, he intended to end the latter. He readied quill and ink, and wrote his correspondence with brusque decisiveness. Once sent, he would have to inform Barnabas of the addition to his itinerary. He snorted drily at his own joke: it wasn't as though Bennett, or any of the other thralls settled within easy travel of the Lukas estate, had any company to speak of, save for himself, and his kin. The man had not been visited, by his count, for some weeks: he would be desperate, and perfect, by the time of the salon he intended to throw. 


	2. Briefing.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mordechai and Barnabas discuss at last the *specifics* the the evening's salon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nevanna and I have spent a great deal if time discussing this and I want to thank her.

Save drafts, and insects, and perhaps, birds, there was nothing that the front door of Barnabas’s house kept out. His masters owned the place as thoroughly as he was himself owned. They could enter at their leisure, though rarely did. They owned the street, too.

The doors to each mews house was well placed with mind to efficiency. The deliveries of food were weekly. Monthly, there might be letters delivered, or some other trifle to occupy the time of the tenants that lined both sides of a long and lonely lane.

The terrace houses, identical to a number he’d seen around English urban and sub-urban areas, ought to have felt more… homey. Instead, the stark rows of brown bricks, closed at one end in a cul-de-sac, felt anonymous. There were many like them in Leeds, in Newcastle, in Liverpool, in those anonymous cities and townships close to sites where the Lukas Family had interests, supernatural or business. They couldn’t all belong to the Lukas family. Barnabas was nearly sure of it.

He wasn’t in a city, that much he knew. What he didn’t know where he was, besides ‘probably England, further north than London’. Not that that was hard. Narrowed it down not a whit. He and a dozen or so poor sods of ‘special interest’ to the Lukases were kept here, in this strange no-place. He never saw them. Never except at the parties they attended, anyway, up at the manor itself.

They didn’t talk about the salons at Moorland House, even more than they didn’t talk about anything else. The need to be touched, to be taken from, for the intimacy of a hand on a shoulder, let alone teeth in one’s wrists, or the _certain knowledge_ that a Lukas, especially Mordechai, considered one _theirs…_

To the touch and company starved wretches that they were, it was excruciating, to be offered around and _used_ so intimately by any and all guests that might be inclined, and maybe, perhaps, be thanked for it after by the masters themselves. Reassured. They did not speak of it, and they did not meet each other’s gazes, when they saw each other in passing on walks for their health. None of them could lay claim to any kind of virtue, not after what they had been made to do by those they served, but the lonely courtesy of avoidance? That, they could about manage.

Barnabas had had his constitutional, had taken it early, rather than see anyone at all, the fog of the witching hour making the moors even more subdued. Only he and his torch stood out, alone. The silhouette he cut shadowed into the fog bank set him with the fey and melancholy fancy that there was nothing in this world but himself, that the Lukases had forsaken him. There had been no blood in his last parcel of food, so perhaps, indeed, they had. Barnabas mused this point, the abject terror and the more poetic melancholia warring within him, and he paid his surrounds no heed.

Mordechai Lukas was a big, and imposing figure, the cuts of his tailcoats, and breeches, and the way he appeared from the thin lingering fog like a guiding light were more than enough to exaggerate the commanding figure he cut in Barnabas’s receiving room. He stood, and Barnabas froze, his heart beating like a rabbit’s within his chest, until he gestured Barnabas to his side, and sat down.

The most comfortable chair, that placed by the fire, with its little writing desk squirreled beneath it, was the throne he claimed, and Barnabas knelt by its side, Mordechai graced him with a cold, sharp smile, and Barnabas ached.

“I have come to deliver you an invitation.” Mordechai said.

“I accept, sir,” said Barnabas, desperately quickly, and the cold smile was whisked away to be replaced by a no less severe frown. Barnabas quailed.

But Mordechai Lukas did not forsake him further, merely resettled in the chair, his sword cane coming to rest between them, the point of the oak hilt hard in Barnabas’s shoulder.

“I have come to deliver you an invitation,” Mordechai repeated, “to a soiree in which I intend for you to play rather an important role. I have had clothes made to your measurements laid out within your bedrooms, you are to wear them.”

This was not unusual. Barnabas listened, rapt, drinking in each word, each tic of his master’s voice and face in the hopes that he might earn his favour. The favour of knowing, intimately, as he had known with Jonah, that Mordechai held him, that Barnabas was _his,_ in a mental reassurance that lingered almost longer than the blood.

“I will feed you shortly, and then I will away to oversee the dinner preparations.”

“Please,” Barnabas interrupted, again, and the stick on his shoulder pushed him down further, past his knees to grovel on the floor before Mordechai Lukas.

“I don’t see why I should grant your plea, when you’re being so churlish,” he chided, and if Barnabas thought he was forsaken before, he was doubly, triply so now, not just distant but cut off from the knowledge that Mordechai was his master. Only his exhaustion kept the whimpering sounds at bay.

“Nonetheless. It was some time since you were last fed, I suppose, and I do have a rather special companion planned for you tonight. I will feed you by hand, and you will come with me to Moorland house.”

Barnabas was light-headed with relief, but he said nothing, didn’t move.

There was a long, slow, ticking of the clock, the rustling of cloth and steel above him. He could smell the blood he needed, so close, and there was no cane holding him down. He could. He didn’t move. Didn’t speak. He was good. He waited and a gloved hand graced his shoulder and raised him from the floor, pulling him close enough to bring an uncuffed wrist to his mouth. Barnabas drank greedily, too greedily, wished again for the closeness of mental touch he’d had with Jonah. But even that was a pale echo of what Mordechai could give him.

His master knew. He didn’t Know, didn’t See, but he knew that Barnabas was whimpering in more than simple greed when he was grabbed by the cravat, and pulled away from the still bleeding wrist.

“What do you want, wretch?” Mordechai Lukas growled.

Barnabas hesitated, but never lied.

“Touch my mind? Please, please, sir. Let me know I’m yours.” Barnabas had once been a proud man. Isolation had broken him down, had turned bright eyes dull, and reduced him to begging to be drunk from, and touched. Mordechai Lukas revelled in it.

“I’m not sure if you’ve done anything to deserve it,” Mordechai continued, “You weren’t ready at my arrival, you wrote to Jonah without permission, you interrupted me twice….” He toyed with the words, and with the fine cotton of Barnabas’s cravat, his steely eyes amused. 

“Let me. Please. What can I do to prove myself to you, Master Mordechai.”

Mordechai relented, or seemed to do so. “Behave yourself this evening. Remain by my side, but feed those who wish to partake. They know the rules. There will be one guest in particular I expect you to please, but I want you to remember what he says to you, verbatim.”

Mordechai dropped him, back at his knees where he belonged, and used the tip of his resheathed sword to lift Barnabas’s chin up, to meet newly red eyes.

“Do you think you can manage that?”

Barnabas shivered, and not from the cold flagstones beneath his bruised knees. “I will, sir. I will not let you down.”

Mordechai stood, and gestured that he might do the same. “Come along, then. The party is this evening, and there is much to prepare.” 


	3. Outfitting Staff Members

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barnabas gets ready for the salon, and Mordechai is unusually happy with the results. Perhaps the night will be splendid?

Barnabas trailed after Mordechai Lukas, underdressed for the winter’s cold. His chemise left his neck tantalisingly bare, of course, and he had on this occasion been allowed such corsetry that allowed him a more masculine bearing than his flesh alone would allow.

This was not always—indeed, not usually—the case. The undergarment that held him required help to get into, after all, and he was quite alone. Even the intimacies offered by another thrall, one Barnabas thought he might half remember was a neighbour, though he’d been wrong before and knew better than to ask, were quite an allowance. The person who’d helped him had had a chemise and breeches, much like his own, though older and more stained. Around their neck, and their wrists, where on another garment, in another place, he might have expected lace, there was instead a patchwork of yellowed stains that clearly declared what the thrall’s purpose was. Barnabas ached to see them, his heart beating coldly and futile in his chest to place the blood more freely in those more intimate veins. 

They were a walking larder, like himself. Mordechai Lukas appraised him as such, once the thrall had finished their lacing work, and Barnabas found himself unashamedly pleased to see the man lick his lips. His cheeks were flush with this faint assumption of praise, a blush Barnabas knew from descriptions and sketches Jonah had drawn for him went all the way down his chest. Mordechai’s teeth were out, now, his eyes red, and Barnabas preened, feeling quite a morsel indeed. Clearly, he was satisfactory to his master. This if nothing else could warm him, as he kept to his place a step behind Mordechai until they boarded the carriage. The thrall who had tied his laces shut the door behind them, and he must presume drove the carriage, too. They would be cold indeed, if so, by the time they reached Moorland House. 

Master and Thrall sat across from each other, and said nothing. Barnabas kept his eyes lowered and away from Lukas, to the floor he’d long since memorised. The knots and whorls were sanded and painted down, kept in perfect place, kept the fog outside this little bubble containing master and larder. He never noticed how long the journey was, too busy paying close attention to any change in atmosphere, in noise, in tone, any indication that he was in some way falling short.

Such as the cough Mordechai loosed, and snapped Barnabas from his reverie to rapt attention. Once more, his master’s eyes were red.  _ Oh,  _ but the hope that swelled within him, that the dropping of the glamour preceded some kind of connection, like it had with Jonah…

No such intimacy was forthcoming. Instead, Mordechai held him only tightly enough that he could not look away from his face, as his master prepared something with his hands, rifling through his pockets, assembling something that he at last dangled into Barnabas’s fixed point of view. It took a long moment for his eyes to focus on it, to pull away from his master’s red eyes to the gold fob, and its grey-blue seal. 

The fob was a heavy thing, it looked like, every bit as broad and blunt as the fingers that held it. Barnabus caught a glimpse of a ship engraved within it, and a motto he couldn’t read quickly enough, not backwards, not when the order came to–

“Lean forward.” 

Barnabas did, let the signet fall on its chain, to hang around his neck. When he sat back up, the cold grey stone sat roughly in line with his heart, which pounded, drove his blood, his _worth,_ through his veins. 

Mordechai scrutinised him, and Barnabas did his best to pass muster. Leaning forward, Mordechai took hold of his chin, turned his head this way, and that, and made sure the chain was long enough that it wouldn’t become entangled with his chemise. For reasons Barnabas wasn’t privy to, it was important tonight to make it  _ known  _ that Barnabas belonged to the Lukases. That alone set his enthralled mind to racing, taking hold of any positive reinforcement he could conjecture. 

“You will make quite the stir tonight, Bennett.” Mordechai Lukas said, satisfied. He sat back, and drank in the sight of Barnabas, readied for the salon, able only due to long training and negative reinforcement to keep from following his master’s withdrawn hand. His cheeks and throat and shoulders, all crimson with the cool air, and the desire to be touched, and drunk from, and claimed. 

“Quite a stir,” he repeated, sitting back smugly and crossing his legs, a self-satisfied air matching his most delighted smile. Barnabas smiled too, and hoped that perhaps, tonight would be splendid. 


	4. Entering into Robust Markets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which: Barnabas learns what his role for the night will be, Jonah is delighted to hear it, and Simon is a nuisance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to Nevanna, for beta reading and for support throughout. 
> 
> Sorry to have kept you waiting: year's been a mess to be frank.

The party was huge. Too big for Barnabas to enter comfortably, after months of isolation. He squared his shoulders, stared at the floor. For Mordechai he strained to keep his discomfort masked, and under control. The heavy weight of Mordechai’s hand on his shoulder, and the solid thunk of the Lukas family seal against his chest kept him, at the very least, grounded. Grounded, in spite of the chasm of terror that opened up within him when the gathered vampires turned to him and his master, as they entered the soiree. Their thralls had other, more individual, concerns, but as far as Barnabas could see, there was not a pair of red eyes that was not trained on Mordechai and those who entered in his wake. Barnabas’s blood flooded to his cheeks, and chest, his heart pounding. 

He stood as still as a portrait before the weight of their regard. Easy prey. And yet, he nearly screamed when he was plucked from the ground, at what felt like the moment his master’s hand left his shoulder. 

There was a rustle of wings, and Barnabas felt his weight shift, hand over hand, until he was face to face with his assailant. Red eyes peered cheerfully out over crows’ feet centuries old. 

“ _ Simon. _ ” At the sound of Mordechai’s voice, Barnabas looked down, his heart in his throat. His master looked up at them both, and Simon laughed heartily. If that hadn’t made his body dangle even more precariously over the open air beneath them, Barnabas might have welcomed that laughter. Instead, he strived to set his feet on something,  _ anything,  _ solid. 

“Mordechai! The man of the hour. May I have a sip of your lad, here?” The smile was clear and teasing in Fairchild’s voice. “I can promise to return him in one piece, if you like.” 

Mordechai didn’t snarl. Rather, his cool regard lowered in temperature. Simon was unrepentant. Mordechai scowled. 

“He is not for you. Not tonight, Simon. I have made other arrangements for his consumption.” 

The hall’s attention peeled away from the newcomers, either to the tableaux of the hapless thrall dangling from the cackling clan head’s clutches, or back into whatever discussion had previously occupied them before the rude interruption. 

Barnabas was not inclined to reflect on his previous stage fright, however. He was more inclined to scrabble for purchase, to avoid bringing shame to his master. 

“Another time, then!” Simon cheerfully declared, and Barnabas felt his chemise  _ drop _ a few inches, as his tormentor’s grip loosened. 

“Sir—“ Barnabas choked out, acutely aware of the vaulted ceiling, the slate flooring, and the likelihood of his incapacitation, if not his death. 

“I like you,” Simon said, confidingly, “And I wouldn’t worry too much about it. Nice chatting!” 

Simon threw him a little, which changed the arc of Barnabas’s fall, but not the sickening awareness of how  _ fast  _ he was travelling, of the likelihood that even his increased healing speed would not be enough to save him—

He landed in stages. He was scooped out of the air, yes, but he was then gently dropped, the sting of the speed he’d been falling neutralised by the initial catch-and-drop that decelerated the effect of his descent. His heart hammered in his chest. He was held like a bride might be carried over the threshold, and when his saviour looked down at him, Barnabas might even hope for such a simile to become more true. 

“Hello, my sweet Barnabas,” Jonah said softly. Barnabas was keenly aware of his gaze, but also of the chain and signet around his neck, chastising his fast-beating heart with its cold point of stillness. Jonah and Mordechai weighed heavily on Barnabas’s mind. 

“I hope you don’t mind my taking the liberty to catch you, Barnabas. I could have left it to your master, but under  _ such  _ scrutiny as this party affords, well. I thought it prudent to offer my assistance.” Jonah laughed. “The pleasant thing about Simon being prone to this kind of behaviour, is it rather  _ does  _ tend to draw the Eye, so to speak.” 

“And I thank you for it.” Mordechai said, drawing Jonah aside and rendering himself, Jonah, and Barnabas invisible to the rest of the party. 

“I did suspect that the… carrion nature of Simon’s more casual dining would not be to your taste, Mordechai.” Jonah said with a smirk. He held Barnabas like he was nothing to him, in weight. Perhaps in more than weight. 

“And you were right to suspect. I have a gift for you.” 

“A gift! Thoughtful. I suppose this is why I was to bring none of my thralls or coven along?” Jonah asked, idly placing Barnabas on his feet. 

Barnabas pushed down with practised determination the pang of longing as Jonah put him down, a hand still bearing down on his shoulder. 

“You may have sole use of that thrall you have there, for the evening.” Mordechai said. Barnabas could hardly believe his luck, or his ears: he did nonetheless of course believe his master. “It is just as well you saved him from the prank; he’d be far less to your taste split upon the tiles, I’m sure.” 

Jonah inclined his head slightly. “ _ Full  _ use, you say?” Barnabas stood up straight, his head tilted slightly back, and hands curled at his sides, the better to display his blood, his veins, his  _ use.  _

“You may toy with his mind, if you wish. Though perhaps, given his training, that will be of less interest to you these days. He was such a rambunctious creature, to begin with; though he now has moments of competence.” 

Barnabas’s heart swelled, and he tossed his head back further.  _ He might yet make his master proud!  _

“I do appreciate how  _ close  _ you once were. I hope this evening grants you satisfaction.” Mordechai concluded nastily.

He looked down at Barnabas, and his cold, gloved hand took a firm grasp of his thrall’s chin. 

Barnabas looked up at him in awe, his heart thudding, the signet flush against his skin, as the crimson strength of his master’s regard filled his mind for one brief, blissful moment. 

“Do not disappoint me, boy.” Mordechai commanded. 

“I will not, sir, I promise, I–” 

The grasp tightened and Barnabas fell silent. 

“I hope you enjoy him.” Mordechai said, and dispelled the invisibility he’d brought down upon the three of them. Barnabas paid it no mind, too full of regard for both Mordechai's lingering presence, and Jonah's gentle intrusions into his mind. 

Mordechai was halfway across the room, before Jonah turned back to Barnabas. 

“Well, my sweet boy. Did you miss me?” 


End file.
